


Gently Sadly Tenderly

by Elizabeth Watson-Holmes (edye327)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Angst, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edye327/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Watson-Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Reichenbach. </p><p>—</p><p>That night, Sherlock came home quietly... “But,” John breathed, and only Sherlock could ever hear these words, “you won’t ever leave me, will you, Sherlock?”</p><p>And Sherlock just kissed him, gently, sadly, tenderly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gently Sadly Tenderly

**Author's Note:**

> So the end of the movie "Of Mice And Men" absolutely wrecked me (as if the book didn't already), and when Lennie said "but you won't ever leave me, will you, George?" I got this overwhelming urge to write a super angsty Johnlock drabble based on that moment. Here you go.

That night, Sherlock came home quietly.

There was no tail end of a diatribe, no infuriated sniff at the fact that John had gone to bed without him, no emphatic chucking of keys onto the table, no cry for Mrs. Hudson to bring him tea and it being three in the morning was neither here nor there.

John would be in his own room, tonight. Sherlock plodded silently across the flat.

He shut his eyes and opened the door.

* * *

John’s mouth curved into an involuntary smile as he felt Sherlock settle into bed, the detective’s lanky frame curling up around his own.

“Took you long enough,” he murmured, settling his hands comfortably over Sherlock’s arms as they encircled him.

“Busy,” his boyfriend replied shortly.

“Shocker.”

When no retort came, John twisted round, searching Sherlock’s face and bringing a finger up to trace the sharp cheekbone threatening to cut through the shadows of early morning.

“Hey.”

Nothing. John was suddenly quite aware that Sherlock was trembling.

_“Hey.”_

He felt a brief press of lips to the nape of his neck. Then, “Yes, John?”

“You okay?”

Sherlock drew in a slow breath, nose tickling John’s hair. “Yes.”

He wasn’t convinced, and rotated in Sherlock’s grasp so they were face-to-face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” There was a darkness, a despair in Sherlock’s gaze that caused John’s heart to pound, his throat to catch.

“Sherlock,” he said urgently. “What happened?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, which trembled of their own accord. The magnitude of whatever had happened – of how evidently _not_ okay things were – knocked the wind out of John. He wrapped himself, enfolded himself within and around the man, begging for closeness, begging for reassurance that everything was not as desperate as it seemed.

“Tell me,” he pleaded.

“John.” It was a low rumble in Sherlock’s chest. He sounded wrecked, somehow, and pulled John even closer to him. “John, I am a selfish man.”

“No, no, you’re not. I’m yours, Sherlock. You know that.”

Sherlock made a barely-audible keening sound, like a whale in mourning. “You misunderstand me.”

“What happened?” John whispered, brushing a hand through those gorgeous black curls.

“It is not – nothing has happened.”

“Then what is it?”

“It is...” Sherlock quite suddenly buried his face in John’s shoulder.

“Hey. It’s okay,” said John, though it wasn’t.

The sky glimmered outside, illuminated by bleak pre-dawn light. Sherlock did a brilliant imitation of sleep, but John knew better.

Something was going to happen. Something bad. Something he dared not think about. Perhaps, deep down, he had already thought about it, already broken his own heart.

John nudged Sherlock’s mouth with his own. “But,” John breathed, and only Sherlock could ever hear these words, “you won’t ever leave me, will you, Sherlock?”

And Sherlock just kissed him, gently, sadly, tenderly.

* * *

“I’m here because...”

“What happened, John?”

“Sher...”

“You need to get it out.”

“My best friend... Sherlock Holmes...”

_Sherlock’s lips, the night before. Sherlock’s eyes, penetrating, wounded, terrified, resigned. Sherlock._

“...is dead.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos/comment if you enjoyed this, and check out my other work, and maybe follow me on tumblr (my URL is lostinsherlock). Thanks so much for reading!


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